Who doesn't close the door in public restrooms?

Ok, enough about Curly Sue (although she is going strong, hanging in there for day 3). Let's talk about some Important Stuff. Like Stuff that Happens in Public Restrooms.

I never use the handicapped stall. I just can't. Even after downing a bucket of Wild Cherry Pepsi at a movie, when I really have to pee and there is a long line and it is the only stall available, I won't use it. What if a legitimately handicapped person comes in right as I'm, um, getting down to business? If I caused someone in a wheelchair to poop their pants because my able-bodied ass was occupying the handicapped stall, the guilt would follow me around my entire life and I wouldn't even try to argue with St. Peter when he shook his head and turned me away from the Pearly Gates.

There is a lady in my building who always uses the handicapped stall and never shuts the door. You heard that right. She leave the door unlatched. Now, this lady has a handicapped parking tag and sometimes uses a cane, so I am not begrudging her the use of the handicapped stall. But I've noticed that her office door is sometimes closed, so she can't have a disability that would keep her from latching the stall.

Don't get me wrong; I never close the bathroom door at home and only rarely do I close it at Steve's (unless I have to see a man about a horse or taking care of some lady business). When I walk in and see the door unlatched and see her feet under the door (of course I look), I start to question myself. Am I being a prude? I mean, it's not like anyone is going to see anything or even walk past. It's the last stall. But then I snap back to reality. No, it's normal to latch the door in public restrooms, just like courtesy flushes or awkward attempts at conversation. As I occupy my stall, I start thinking that maybe it's a dare. She's daring me to fling open the door. Or maybe she's really germophobic, and the merits of latching the door do not outweigh the sheer amount of pathogens that touching the latch would potentially transfer to her hands.

By the time I leave the bathroom, in my mind she has become this passive-aggressive lunatic who goes back to her office to don tissue-box slippers.

She does have that handicapped placard...

Seriously, it's not that hard.

As Nancy's birthday lunch comes to a close...

...Dummy McStupidFace makes a fatal mistake.

The bill arrives...

...and the shit hits the fan.

Things get really ugly, really quickly.

The moral of this story? Always, always ask for separate checks.

...and bring some small bills, mother fuckers.

You win this time, venison.

Even though nobody asked what Harry Potter yarn looks like yesterday, I know you were all wondering. Here you go, cry babies:

Happy now? Animal abuse really brings my family together. We also bond over red wine and guacamole, but that is a story for another time.

On to some interesting stuff. Wednesday night I spent the night with my BFF, since her boyfriend was out of town and I am a good friend. Also she mentioned in passing that she was going to put a venison loin in the crock pot. Done and done. I'm there.

BFF and her boyfriend are really fun people, and do interesting things like spear fishing and free-diving. Their freezer is always stocked with fish they've speared while diving at a local ship wreck or shrimp they netted from the waterway in their backyard. I do interesting things like eat their fish and shrimp. BFF works in the land management industry and is really conscious of where her food comes from, growing most of her own vegetables, only eating meat if she's killed it herself or knows the hunter personally,* and guilting me into using Blackle instead of Google. I'm making her sound weird and sanctimonious, but seriously she is awesome.

Long story short, the venison and accompanying homemade mac and cheese was delicious. BFF packed some leftovers for me to take for lunch, and I spent the first half of the day bragging to anyone who would listen about how my lunch was going to fucking rock. Unfortunately for me (and my co-workers), I spent the second half of the day camped pretty close to the office restroom as the wild game raced through me. Everyone at work was complaining about how cold it was yesterday, but my intestinal turmoil had my internal thermostat kicked pretty high and I was flushed and sweaty all day. New Year's resolution to lose a few pounds? I'll go ahead and scratch that off of my list.

Confession time: ok, it wasn't the venison. It was the mac and cheese. Damn you, lactose intolerance! I'm still in denial.

-------------------------------------------------
*After a few drinks a couple of weeks back, BFF confessed to me that she had really been craving bacon lately, and did I want to take up archery with her so we could go bow-hunting for wild boar? I took archery as my PE requirement in college, so of course I said yes. We haven't actually gone any farther with the planning than that initial conversation, but I'll be sure to keep you posted. Though I will most likely fall asleep in the tree blind on the day of the hunt, waking only after someone else makes a kill and throwing up on myself while I watch as the kill is butchered.

Fact or Fiction Tuesday

Item 1:

Statement: Because you caught me updating my Netflix queue at work, I have enough time on my hands to help you organize your Mortar, Concrete, and Grout Test Reports.

FICTION
Sure, I have a little time on my hands. I'm efficient. That doesn't mean I have time to do your job, too. Just to clear something up--when I helped you out a month ago clear off the landfill you call a desk, I wasn't setting up a standing date. Stop hinting that you could really use my organizational skills again. Buying me lunch isn't going to entice me back into the no man's land that is your office. It smells like onions and feet. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a couple of hundred unread blog posts to attend to in my Google Reader. Good day, sir.

Item 2:

Statement: I enjoy coming home to find 3 or 4 pairs of underwear scattered about the house, sans crotch.

FACT
Obviously. Otherwise why would I leave my underwear on the very top of my tall dresser, easily accessible to any passing pitbull with a vertical leap of 6' or more? Clearly I am too good to wear any single pair of panties more than once.

Item 3:

Statement: Traffic signs displaying 'SPEED LIMIT 45' should be interpreted to mean 'drive as slow as you'd like, preferably 30 mph.'

FICTION
Surprising, I know. Even though one of my headlights burned out last week so I am forced to drive with my brights on to avoid a ticket until I can convince Steve to help me replace the bulb, know that I would be driving with my brights on behind you even if it this wasn't the case. Because I'd like to be home at 5:45 on a Friday evening, not crawling behind your slow ass, watching as you gab on the phone and toss your cigarette butts out of the window. You probably can't tell because my bright lights are in your rear view mirror, but I'm giving you the finger.

Item 4:

Statement: I would kick ass at Wheel of Fortune.

FACT


POLYNESIAN RESTAURANT. Got it.
PLUS I would not be a greedy spinner, risking bankrupting myself while trying to up my winnings for the round. I would be content win a couple thousand each round, and really clean up in the 'toss up' rounds. I wouldn't scream or lose my cool when I landed on a big money space, either. I'd calmly collect my cardboard pie piece which represented a trip to New Mexico, and laugh all the way to the bonus round. Which I would win. Then I would give Pat Sajak a high-five and smile at Vanna as she opened the door to the brand new Chevy convertible I had just won. I'd pretend I was driving and honk the horn as the program faded to commercial.

Item 5:

Statement: You can win cool stuff just by commenting on this blog.

FACT

Click here for details.

Mixed Bag

For your Friday enjoyment, a couple of random office pictures.

Dexter, stop distracting me. Some of us have to work for a living.
**bonus points if you can spot the office plant I stubbornly refuse to water**


Coworker: Hey, Sarah, do we have any copier paper?
Me: None at all.

Enjoy the weekend!

I just hope I spell my name right

Office dynamics are weird. I mean, you're spending upwards of 40 hours a week with people who are not your family or even your friends. You end up finding out things about your co-workers that you really wish you hadn't, like that Nancy in Finance used to have a drug dependency, or Bob in Human Resources cheated on his wife 16 years ago and just found out he has a daughter from the affair. But the worst thing about the semi-intimate relationships you develop at work are the cards that are circulated for various occasions. Birthdays are not too bad, I guess. A quick "haha, you old!" and you're done, right? Boss' day; again, not so bad. "Thanks for not firing me," has seemed to go over pretty well in the past.

The occasion that leaves me chewing my pen, at a loss for something, ANYTHING to say, is when a coworkers' family member dies. In the year that I've been here, two of my office mates have lost a parent. Granted, my supervisor's father was 96 and it came as no surprise, but I was still at a loss. My boss always comes up with something like "Keep him alive in your heart," or "You are a testament to the person he was," both of which make my lame, "So sorry for your loss," look even lamer by comparison, even if I am lucky enough to be the first of my similarly tongue-tied coworkers to scrawl that trite sentiment on our group card. Even worse is when a card circulates for someone in our building who I couldn't pick out of a lineup for a million dollars. How bad is it to write, "You and your family are in my thoughts," when I know I most likely won't think of them at all after I put the card in my office neighbor's inbox for their signature?

The task of getting a memorial plant fell to me when an office mate's mother died after a protracted illness. The office consensus was that we wanted to get him a tree that he and his daughters could plant in memory of their grandmother. Unfortunately, it was January, and every tree I found was dormant and looked like an ugly dead stick stuck in a pot. "Sorry your mom died; here's a twisted twig we stuck in a pretty pot that may or may not bloom in a couple of months." After reporting the dismal selection of potted trees at three local nurseries and 2 home improvement stores, my coworkers urged me to get the "best looking" tree I could find. For $45. *Sigh* I ended up getting the saddest little magnolia tree you can imagine, and putting a big white bow on it before putting it in his office. I cringed when I showed it to the office, and the silence and raised eyebrows that it was met with confirmed my belief that this was not the memorial any of us had envisioned.

Today I signed another sympathy card for a cowoker I have yet to exchange a single "hello" with. At this point, I'm not even sure what I wrote. I'm pretty sure I didn't write "Happy Birthday," but other than that, who knows?

My cookie tastes like a pen

Inspired by Ben's work-related post, here's a peek into my office:

• A coworker's response to a remark about his habit of clipping his nails at his desk:
  "What? At least you know I'm well groomed."
  What I know is to avoid your office during your grooming sessions, lest I get a nail clipping in my eye.
  
  
• From the mail room lady:
  "Would you like some cheese and jalapeno grits?"
  Yes. A thousand times, yes.
  
  
• A local restaurant dropped off "goody bags" with coupons and pens to drum up some lunch business. I high-five a coworker about our good fortune--coupons and a pen!?! I find out later that each of the bags also had a cookie in them, but the fat bitch switchboard operator took them all out and ate them over the next 3 days. Now I think my pen sucks.
  
  
• The boss is on vacation this week, and I had to show him how to set up his automatic email "away" message. For the fourth time.
  
  I will not be watering his plants in his absence.

Today can suck it

Barf. Today sucks. It started off rough because I had way too much fun at Tina's house last night, drinking margaritas, eating delicious turkey meatballs, and losing at Scrabble. So I was already planning on hating this morning. When the alarm went off it was still way dark, and Ernie was hogging all the blankets. The lightbulb in my room has been burnt out for a couple days now, but it's too high for me to reach (even on a chair!) and the BF has ignored several requests to bring his ladder over, so my room dark.

By some happy accident I managed to find some stain- and wrinkle-free work-appropriate clothes and a whole pair of underwear. My morning's looking up! I thought. So what if I almost barfed in the shower? Onward and upward! I poured myself some Cranberry Splash Sierra Mist and headed out the door. Hey, the car started! Sweet!

But then shit headed downhill. I sat at just about every stop light between my house and work. I really had to blow my nose and couldn't find a tissue. I forgot to put my check card back in my wallet so no delicious Sausage McMuffin for me. Oh, it gets worse.
You know that funky liquid that collects in your cup holder if you don't clean it out like, ever? Well, I dripped some of that on my pants as I was getting out of the car. That shit stinks. Literally. It smells bad. And now it's on me. I tried to scrub it out in the bathroom, but I just spread the stain around. I'm still smelling the smell now. Yuck. A co-worker brought doughnuts in, and everyone ate the good ones while I was trying to scrub the funk out of my pants. The only two left were a jelly-filled (barf) and a half of a dry non-glazed cake one. Who eats half a doughnut and leaves it in the box?



It doesn't matter anyway; the funk from my pants is turning my stomach.

*Note: I know my day could be much worse. I have a job, a home, friends, family, and awesome pets. But still; a girl's allowed to complain once in a while, right?

Mad Mutha Fudrucker

I had planned on blogging about how, when I was little, I wanted to have twins (a boy and a girl) and name them "Cowa" and "Bunga" after my favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' catchphrase. You're going to have to wait for that story, because all I can think about it how someone at the Lance Cracker Factory is messing with my head.

Work sucks on Mondays (usually), so I like to bribe myself with treats thoughout the day to keep from strangling myself or others with the vines of the Boss' philodendron. A semi-brief look at my task/treat schedule:

7:30-7:45am: Catch up on my favorite blogs (this is my reward for getting to work).

7:45-8:00am: Take care of all the odds-and-ends work I didn't feel like doing after 4:30 on Friday of last week.

8:00am: Walk to the adjacent department to see what baked goods Susan has brought for this week. Today--some sort of chocolate cake. Try to remember to wipe the crumbs off my face.

8:05am: Answer emails, return telephone calls, pound some numbers into my adding machine, blah blah blah boring stuff.

11:20am: Walk to upstairs to get some Lance Toast Chee Crackers (no, not a typo; I'm looking at the package right now and it is really spelled this way). These are delicious cheddar cracker sandwiches with peanut butter filling. Trust me when I tell you that the blinding neon orange color of the crackers in no way reflects how good these sandwich crackers are. Plus, a package of 6 costs only 40 cents!

But wait, did I say 40 cents? Because today, to my astonishment, my Toast Chee Crackers were clearly labeled 60 cents.


I'm glad no one else was in the 2nd floor break room, because I stood there for a good 2 minutes just staring at the vending machine, wondering what had I done to deserve this. I'm still reeling. To add insult to injury, after wasting spending 60 cents on Toast Chee, I only had 40 cents remaining, which is not enough for a can of Coke. So I had to walk back downstairs and dig a couple of nickels out of my purse. I'm glad no one stopped me to ask how my day was going, because I think I would have said something along the lines of "shitty," which is not really acceptable work place language (at least not at my current workplace; when I waited tables, if you weren't having a shitty day at work that meant you were making lots of money, and that made everyone jealous and hate you). I came close to unloading some expletives on a co-worker who was in the break room when I took a picture of the offending Crackers. But she seemed genuinely sympathetic about the outrageous price hike, so I kept my rage in check. No reason to make an old lady cry, or showcase myself in an unflattering light. Not if it can be helped.

So there you have it. Lance Toast Chee crackers are now an astonishing 60 cents. Also, if I had twins now, I would not name them "Cowa" and "Bunga." Although "Pea," "Bee," and "Jay" are still in the running if I have triplets.

I kill plants

I like plants. Unfortunately for them, they don't cry when they are hungry, or wake me up when they need to go outside, or do anything really attention-grabbing, so they go unnoticed by me. My very few attempts at plant husbandry have gone, well, not so good.

Me: Check out my new bedspread!
Roommate: Cool, it goes really well with the dried grasses you have artfully arranged on your windowsill.
Me: Dried grasses? Hmm, I guess I have been less than diligent in my watering duties.

Which brings me to my point. I don't do office plants. I don't need a dead plant screaming to my co-workers about my lack of attention to detail. It just doesn't look good. The Boss' wife works in the department next to mine, and one day she came out of The Boss' office and asked me if I had watered his plants recently. I thought I had misheard her. Watered his plants? Is that code for something? Then my supervisor told me that the lady who worked in my position before me always watered The Boss' plants. Wow. Did she also pre-chew his food for him?

I have enough email to answer blogs to read things to do at work without babysitting someone elses' plants. I mean, come on. I don't expect The Boss to let my dogs out on his lunch break.

Co-workers will make the plant-watering rounds, asking me if I have any plants that need watering. Nope. Do I think The Boss' plants need watering? Maybe; I know I haven't watered them. I fantasize daily about peeing on them or spraying them with Round Up (the plants, not my co-workers). Let me reiterate: I like plants. I just don't like the way they silently judge me as they slowly wilt and turn brown.